


I Get To Love You

by AquaWolfGirl



Series: Aqua's One Shots [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Does Fingering Count As Smut?, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Married Couple, Married couple au, Modern AU, No Plot, One-Shot, There Is Fingering And Making Out, This Is Just Pure Fluff And Smut, cuteness, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Newly married couple Rey and Ben Solo indulge in each other. All fluff, some humor, and a little smut, for those of you who enjoy the more domestic side of things.





	I Get To Love You

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten so many requests to do more domestic!Reylo, so I figured I'd just throw this one up for shits and giggles. This is dedicated to the lovely anon I received last night who asked for something of this sort, but I had class in three hours so I had to get at least a bit of sleep. I'm so sorry that I didn't get it up on time, anon, but I hope this makes your week better. Thank you so much for reaching out to me and allowing me to create this piece!  
> Perhaps a bit OOC, but then again that's the risk with writing Star Wars characters in a modern, real-world setting I suppose.  
> Enjoy!

“You know, if you’re going to surprise me with flowers, it would help not to leave your phone in the same room I’m in. Order confirmation came through.”

Oh, but he’s so precious, his gaze snapping from his laptop to her. She can see the moment he knows he fucked up, his dark eyes widening behind his glasses. It’s funny, actually, and she grins as she leans against the doorway to their bedroom, his phone in her hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is carefully level, low as it always is, pitched ever so slightly in faux confusion. 

“Mhm,” Rey hums, raising a brow at her husband as she walks over to him. “And I guess you’re just doing work, is that it? Is that why you have your laptop in bed with you? You don’t have Floral Fantasy’s website up?”

“Actually, I’m watching a movie,” Ben says simply, turning the slim laptop around to show her the paused film on screen. Now that she’s paying attention, she can see the black wire of his earbuds. 

All right. Two can play at this game, she decides, as she walks over, setting his phone down on his bedside table before leaning over to kiss the top of his head. “Oh, so you didn’t order the roses for me? Did you order them for your lover, then?”

He snorts in laughter, shaking his head as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “No.”

“Oh, so they’re for Hux?”

“No!”

His indignant cry is better than a confirmation that yes, he did order the flowers for her, and she laughs as she flops backwards on the bed, grinning towards her husband as he rolls his eyes at her. 

Husband. Ben Solo is her husband.

It still feels strange to her, the word heavy but sweet on her tongue three months after the wedding. She supposes this is the honeymoon stage, where everything is sweet and perfect. Where he orders her flowers just for the hell of it, just because he can. 

“What are you doing reading my emails, anyway?” 

“The notification went off, and I was curious,” she confesses, flipping over onto her stomach to watch him as he pulls his earbuds out and sets his computer aside, giving her his full attention. She grins, watching as he pulls her side of the blankets down – an invitation. She doesn’t take it right away, though. She’s getting her answer first. “Why, does that bother you?”

“No, usually they’re just spam, or work emails,” he mutters, his large hand finding the empty space that she usually occupies. “Come here.”

“No,” she says firmly, watching as his dark brows shoot up in surprise. She smirks, moving to rest on her side, her elbow propped on the bed and her head resting against her palm. “Not until you tell me why you ordered a dozen roses.”

“I didn’t order a dozen roses, I told you.”

“Then someone named Ben Solo used your email to order a dozen roses, and set the delivery address to our apartment.”

His pale cheeks turn pink, and she knows victory is within reach as he pulls the covers down a little further, making it a little easier for her to slip beneath them. “I was going to surprise you.”

There it is. She grins as she crawls up the bed, watching her darling husband avoid her gaze, obviously embarrassed. She wishes his hair revealed his ears, so that she could see the pink tips of them, but she knows he’ll never cut it that short for exactly that reason. “Aw, Ben…”

“I’m allowed to surprise my wife,” he says firmly, reminiscent of the hard-ass, incredibly serious man she first met all those years ago, the man who wore all black and rode a motorcycle and went by ‘Kylo’ instead of ‘Ben’. 

How long ago that was, now…

“Of course you are,” she insists, crawling up beside him and resting her head against his shoulder. His arm wraps around her within a heartbeat, and she tucks herself against him, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin grey t-shirt he’s wearing. His hand finds her waist, and she closes her eyes, breathing him in and just relishing in the contact she was denied for so damn long. 

She can feel a soft kiss to the top of her head, and sighs, pressing her nose to the tender skin of his neck. 

“But it’s not a surprise, now, is it? And it’s your fault for ruining it for yourself.”

She laughs, opening her eyes and pulling herself from him only to straddle his hips, settling on his thighs as she grins. Her hands find his shoulders for stability, and his find her hips, warm fingers spreading to hold her tight. “It didn’t say the estimated delivery date?” she asks, raising a brow at him. “If that makes you feel any better, I don’t know when I’m getting them. I can still be surprised.”

He hums, obviously displeased that his perfect surprise was ruined. “I was trying to be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” she teases, leaning down to brush her lips against hers. She had more to say, she knows she did, but the moment her mouth brushes against her husband’s, she forgets what it was. She thinks it had something to do with listing all the ways he’s romantic, but she can’t remember what examples she was going to use. Of course, there are dozens, but the feeling of his lips on hers makes her brain short circuit, and she goes from trying to remember to just melting into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as his wrap around her waist. 

She will never get tired of this. She remembers the first day they met, how even though their first interaction was a shouting match, she thought his lips were perfect. Plump and plush and pink and perfect, even when calling her a dirty street rat because of her old, rusted, red Vespa.

Since that day over three years ago, now, she’s had the pleasure of looking at those lips and – often, very often, in fact – the immense pleasure of kissing them. 

She can feel his hand slip up her tank top, feeling at her bare skin, fingers rubbing circles into her muscles. She sighs against his mouth, hand slipping up and into the dark waves she loves so much. No matter how many times she uses his conditioner, her hair is never quite as silky or shiny as his. She doesn’t get it, but she’s not complaining, not in the slightest. 

“Hey!” 

His other hand, while she was thinking about his hair, slipped under the loose sleep shorts to cup her ass, and she can feel him smirking against her lips as his fingers slip beneath her underwear, as well. “You’re wearing the sexy ones,” he notices, teeth nipping at her lower lip. 

“I need to do laundry,” Rey protests, laughing as his smirk immediately falls in disappointment. “You know if you want me to wear them, all you have to do is ask.”

“True,” he mutters, leaning up to kiss her again. It’s a little deeper, a little filthier, and heat surges through her veins as her fingers sink into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck as she feels him trace circles on the skin of her ass, underneath the lace covering her. “But then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

Their first time was a mess, she remembers that well. Two kids who had no idea what actual good sex meant, who had a general idea of what to do but not much more. Two kids who fought more than they talked, two kids who eventually realized that they had more in common than they thought, and then fighting turned into late night phone calls that lasted for hours and hours, and then when the call ended it turned into texts. Eventually the calls turned into just calling each other and falling asleep to the sound of the other snoring, or breathing, or whatever. 

And then it somehow turned into … well, more.

And then turned into her wearing a wedding ring and them sleeping in the same bed and sharing a house and a bathroom and clothes (more in her case than Ben’s, to be honest, even though she’s caught him walking around in her little sleep shorts more than once).

She can feel his hands come to her sleep shorts, hand slipping beneath the elastic waistband to cup her ass, his palm and fingers stroking the sheer lace. Her own fingers slip beneath the stretched neck of his old grey t-shirt, feeling the warm skin covering taut muscle. 

She’ll never get sick of feeling his bare skin, she thinks, as he walks his fingers up to the waistband of her underwear, slipping to cup her ass. His other hand slips up her back, his arm wrapping around her, and she sighs against his lips as she feels him tighten his hold on her.

She wonders if she will ever get tired of having him wrapped around her, his body broad and hot and so overwhelmingly big compared to her. She wonders if she’ll ever stop feeling protected when she’s in his arms, like nothing can hurt her, be it real or not real. 

This time, it’s her turn to slide her hands up his shirt, to feel the bare muscles of his back, to feel the scars he received after he crashed his bike years ago. There’s one on his shoulder, too, and she can recall the day with overwhelming clarity. The dread she felt hearing his name on the news, seeing it on social media, Finn and Poe texting her to let her know what happened. 

She remembers the relief she felt when he was confirmed to be injured but alive with equal clarity, and remembers the kiss she pressed to his cheek in the hospital, his skin smelling like disinfectant and metallic blood but so warm, so soft under her lips. 

Rey pulls his t-shirt up and over his head, fingers finding the scar on his shoulder as he pulls her tank top up. She’d abandoned the idea of a bra when she came home from work, changed into comfortable clothes, and she’s grateful for it now – it means one less layer between them, and she’s able to press her bare chest to her husband’s as she wraps her arms around his neck and holds him flush to her. 

“Have I told you I love you today?” she asks as she feels hot lips against her collarbone, against her shoulder, against the top of her breast – marking, tracing trails of freckles and moles as she sighs and lets him. 

“Yes, plenty,” Ben mutters. “But I won’t argue to hearing it again.”

“I love you,” she replies, just for the hell of it. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love-“

Her lips are covered by his, and she can’t help the happy grin that stretches across her mouth. Her hands roam his bare back, feeling all the scars she’s mapped out before, the ones she knows better than she knows the stretch marks on her inner thighs from growing too much too soon. She’s sure there are parts of her he knows better than himself, too, with how many times she’s woken in the middle of the night to his wandering, reverent hands. 

Speaking of wandering hands-

“If you ruin these,” Rey warns as she feels his hand come around the front of her panties, fingers and palm cupping her folds. The tenderness of his touch doesn’t match the smirk he’s wearing, not one bit, and she glares at him as his thumb moves to brush the juncture between her leg and her groin. “Ben Solo, I mean it.”

“Rey Solo,” he says, voice low and dulcet, and she damn near moans at the sound of her now full name. Rey Solo. She likes it so much better than the collection of names she’s had through the years. Rey Solo.

“I paid good money for these, Ben, I won’t have you – oh!”

“I can buy you a new pair,” he says, voice a low purr, and she does let out a moan, now, at the feeling of his fingers stroking at her folds. “Let me ruin them.”

She relents not with words, but with a kiss, a little open-mouthed and a little sloppy. She feels the silky strands of his dark waves slip through her fingers as she clings to him – her husband, as he moves his fingers tantalizingly slowly against her. His hand is trapped between her body and her panties, her groin and his own lap as she grinds down in an attempt to get a little more friction. Immediately his hand stills, and she fucking hates the chuckle she feels against her lips. 

“Ben,” she growls warningly, but she knows what he’s doing. 

She knows all too well, and she knows that in the long run, it will be so much better. 

“Patience,” he mutters, resuming his reverent stroking and exploring before his thumb finds her clit and rubs in a long, slow, teasing circle. Her hips buck and she clenches her hand in his hair, gasping against his swollen mouth. 

“Easy for you to say,” Rey replies, embarrassed beyond belief that it comes out as almost a wanton whine. She can feel his chuckle again, and opens her mouth to try and say something smart, but his fingers slipping inside her catch her off guard, and she gasps, her eyes widening at the intrusion. 

“Ben!”

“Too soon?” he questions, but no, no it isn’t. She’s soaked from his touches alone, from the heat of his bare skin beneath her palm, at the feeling of his hard muscle against her breasts. Fuck, she’s soaked just from him, and she wonders how in the hell she got so lucky to fall in love with someone so damn hot. 

“No,” she breathes, glancing up at him. His eyes are sinfully dark behind his glasses, pupils blown wide as he leans in and molds his mouth to hers. Quick as a blink, she reaches back and takes his hand, the one upon her back, and pulls it back around. She lifts herself onto her knees to make it easier for him to move, and pants against his lips as she holds his hand, lacing their fingers together. 

She can feel the warm metal of his gold wedding ring, and grins against his lips before he presses against her clit hard, rubbing just the way they learned she likes. Her moan buzzes against his mouth, and it’s downhill from there. 

She knows him as well as he knows her, and knows that he likes her thumb pressed just beneath the ridge of his cock. She knows the sound of his head tipping back against their headboard, knows his ragged moan better than she knows her own damn ringtone, knows that when his hand tightens almost painfully on her hip that he’s close. She can feel the soaked lace of her panties against her skin, knows she’ll have to change, but she doesn’t give a fuck. So what, she’ll have to wash them by hand, big deal. 

She’ll have to wear them again sometime soon – and make them visible, next time. 

The kisses after they’ve both released are some of her favorites. Ben’s always been damn good at kissing, even when he went by Kylo Ren, even when he wore black leather and pressed her up against his bike. He likes to lick and bite and suck, likes to overwhelm her with the tricks he knows, and that’s great, that’s wonderful, she loves it. But these kisses – the soft ones, almost reminiscent of the ones they exchanged in the gazebo in the park after having exchanged vows. These, she thinks, smiling. These are her favorite. 

“Mm, we should clean up,” she hears him say, and she knows they should. His cum is quickly cooling between them. She knows they should get up and make dinner, be proper adults and finish unpacking the last two suitcases from their weekend trip to his parents house up in Parsec Heights. 

“We should,” she whispers, making no move to actually get up and off of this wonderful, perfect man she loves more than anything. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends,” he mutters, chasing her lips even as she leans back a little to look down at him, his glasses a little crooked. 

She grins and fixes them, taking the opportunity to fix his hair, too, or at least right it as best as she can. “Can I surprise you with something, too? Flowers?”

Years ago, he would have scoffed. Would have protested at the idea of something so feminine, so sweet. But she knows he would have blushed and kept the flowers alive for as long as biologically possible. 

Now, with a gold band around his finger and his bare chest pressed to his and his arms wrapped around her, he just hums, like he’s thinking about it. “I like tiger lilies,” he says, after a moment.

“I’ll be sure you see the order confirmation,” she teases, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in to kiss him again.

“Oh, shut up.”


End file.
